


no small thing

by sublime_jumbles



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Body Image, Body Worship, Chubby Katsuki Yuuri, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Self Confidence Issues, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:23:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9613700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublime_jumbles/pseuds/sublime_jumbles
Summary: Yuuri wants that old feeling back, that sense of peace with his body. He misses that fondness, the way that being chubby felt comfortable, reliable, in a way that being thin never has. Thin is precarious, and it always gives way to softness in the end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ETERNAL thanks to wy and jern for all of their help beta-ing this!!!! i appreciate you v deeply!!!!

“Mmmm,” says Yuuri, grabbing the edge of the duvet and pulling it over himself, rolling onto the edge to keep it in place. “Don’t make me get up yet.”

Viktor noses at the back of his neck, where his hair is beginning to brush the collar of his shirt. “You’re lucky I’m your coach,” he murmurs, making Yuuri shiver a little as his breath passes over his skin. “An extra hour in bed would never fly with Yakov, even in the off-season.”

Yuuri rolls onto his back, reaches up to brush a finger over Viktor’s lips. “That’s why I’m not in bed with Yakov.”

Viktor laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and the sight still makes Yuuri’s stomach flip-flop. “Please,” says Viktor. “If you leave me for Yakov, I won't know how to go on.”

Yuuri traces Viktor’s jawline with his fingertip, finding the spots where prickly pale morning stubble softens to skin. “The chance of that happening is very small.”

Viktor arches an eyebrow. “But not impossible?”

Yuuri laughs, pulls Viktor down to kiss him. “What can I say?” he murmurs against Viktor’s lips. “I have a weakness for Russian skating coaches.”

Viktor’s hand drifts down to the swell of Yuuri’s belly, soft beneath his T-shirt. He grabs a handful of pudge, squeezes gently, and Yuuri inhales, careful not to suck in. 

“Very convenient,” says Viktor, tracing a fingertip over the skin of Yuuri’s stomach, “because  _ I  _ happen to have a weakness for Japanese world champions with cute bellies.”

Yuuri laughs a little as Viktor scoots down until his face is level with Yuuri’s midsection. “Are there many of those?”

Viktor shakes his head, dropping kisses along the soft curve of Yuuri’s belly. The ends of his hair tickle Yuuri’s skin, and he squirms against Viktor’s mouth.

“You’re the only one,” says Viktor, planting a loud kiss directly below Yuuri’s navel. “ _ You’re  _ my weakness,” and Yuuri tangles a hand in Viktor’s hair as Viktor buries his face in Yuuri’s stomach again. “You’re so soft,” he says, voice muffled. “You’re like a bowl of pudding,  _ солнышко _ . I could lie here all day.”

Viktor has abandoned his coaching mentality for the off-season, favoring leisurely skating sessions instead of strenuous ones and showering Yuuri in treats, but Yuuri still periodically dreads the irrational thought that, once Viktor slips out of the honeymoon phase and back into the skating season, he might realize how decidedly unathletic Yuuri is looking these days, and reconsider.

Yuuri didn’t mind last winter, when his weight began to creep back up, when his stomach began to spill comfortably into his lap. It was something of a relief: Chubby Yuuri wasn't a figure skater. Chubby Yuuri didn't have to live up to any of the expectations that Skinny Yuuri did. No one even knew Chubby Yuuri in America - he was just another college student who liked his meal plan too much, who didn't exercise enough. He liked the anonymity the extra weight gave him, the little burst of freedom at the realization that if he didn't perform, he didn't have to worry about disappointing anyone, and if he didn't have to worry about disappointing anyone, it didn't matter how he looked. 

Maybe that’s the crux of it, he thinks. His body is public again, his presence in the spotlight inviting commentary where he doesn’t want it. He’ll inevitably disappoint after each season when he begins rounding out again, and more than anything he fears reaching a point where he succumbs to the mindset that that’s is a bad thing, instead of a natural one. 

He wants that old feeling back, that sense of peace with his body. He misses that fondness, the way that being chubby felt comfortable, reliable, in a way that being thin never has. Thin is precarious, and it always gives way to softness in the end.

He takes a deep breath, watches his stomach rise and fall as he strokes Viktor’s hair absently. The trick to being successfully anxious around Viktor is carefully disguising it so he doesn’t suspect a thing, and Yuuri’s afraid that if he ever does let slip that he’s anything less than a hundred percent comfortable with his body, he’ll make Viktor feel like he’s failed somehow. It’s not his fault that no matter how often he praises Yuuri’s body, Yuuri still doubts it again as soon as he’s alone, the imagined critiques of the media pressing in on him until he buckles.

Viktor shifts, inches himself back up in bed, and Yuuri moves to accommodate him until they’re spooning again. One of Viktor’s hands remains on his belly, absently stroking and teasing at his chub. 

Yuuri lies on his side, staring out at the blurry skyline of St. Petersburg in the late morning light. The windows in Viktor’s apartment span nearly the height of the walls, and it’s taken the better part of the two months that he’s been here for Yuuri to stop feeling like he’s about to fall out of them whenever he passes too close.

“What are you thinking about?” Viktor says into his shoulder, and Yuuri starts. “You’re staring,” Viktor continues, gently. “What’s bothering you?”

Yuuri takes another deep breath. Viktor is still here, still next to him, still kissing his stomach like it doesn't bother him that there's much more of it now than there was a month ago. And it  _ shouldn’t  _ bother him, Yuuri corrects himself. It’s fine, he’s fine. More doesn’t mean less lovable.

“I'm hungry,” he says, and it's not  _ untrue _ . “It’s your turn to cook. What are you going to make me for breakfast?”

He glances over his shoulder and catches Viktor’s smile, returns it. Viktor squeezes another handful of his belly. 

“Anything you want,” he says. “Provided I can make it.”

Yuuri smirks. Neither of them is particularly  _ good _ at cooking, but Viktor is markedly, undoubtedly worse. 

“Omelets?” he suggests, reaching up to play with the ends of Viktor's hair. “You're okay at those.”

Viktor pretends to look stricken. “Just  _ okay _ ?” 

Yuuri shrugs, smiling. “Eh, you're all right. What about muffins? We have the ones from a box.”

Viktor grins mischievously, pinches at Yuuri’s sides where they bulge over the waistband of his boxers. “I like yours better,” he says, and Yuuri goes red. 

“Muffin  _ top _ ,” he says, covering his eyes. “That's called a muffin  _ top _ .”

He peers through his fingers to see Viktor shrug, unfazed. “The top is the best part anyway.”

“Yeah, you would think so,” teases Yuuri. He sits up and stretches his arms over his head, feeling his stomach pool in his lap. 

Viktor plants a final kiss on Yuuri's belly before sitting up beside him. “Come on,” he says, tousling Yuuri’s hair. “Let’s get some muffins into your muffin top, hmm?”

Yuuri groans, but when Viktor pokes his gut before rolling out of bed, he hides a tough little smile. Viktor loves him like this, and he’s liked himself like this before, so - it can’t be that hard to do it again, right?

_ Wrong _ , his brain says, panicky,  _ that is very wrong and you  _ know  _ it _ \- 

He ignores the little voice, watches Viktor pull on his teal bathrobe, then tucks his glasses over his ears and follows him out of bed. 


	2. Chapter 2

Yuuri shifts on the couch, scooting lower and adjusting the pillow behind his head, and the movement makes his belly jiggle. 

Viktor knows, because it's rare for him to take his eyes off Yuuri, first of all, and second because the black t-shirt Yuuri is wearing has ridden up, exposing the soft undercurve of his stomach.

Viktor pauses in the doorway of the living room, just watches for a moment. Yuuri has his headphones in, and he's mouthing along to something on his phone, one sentence at a time, eyes narrowed and forehead pinched in concentration. Even though he’s wearing his glasses, he’s still holding his phone centimeters from his face. One of his hands drops off the couch to graze at Makkachin’s topknot.

Viktor crosses the room and sits on Yuuri's socked feet, and Yuuri looks up, takes out one earphone. 

“ _ Привет _ ,” he says cheerfully. 

Viktor smiles. “What are you doing?”

“Learning Russian.” The way Yuuri is sitting, the angle of his chin against his chest makes the softness there a little more pronounced. Viktor wants to kiss it. 

“And what are you learning?” he asks, reaching a hand around Yuuri's knees to poke at his exposed belly, make it wobble again.

Yuuri squirms away, taking out his other earphone. “ _ Это мой мама, не мой мотор _ .”

“This is my -  _ what _ ?” 

Yuuri is laughing. He holds out his phone so Viktor can see - he's using some app. He's entered the words correctly, and Viktor presses  _ done  _ to see what comes next.  _ Да, это цирк _ , says the screen, and Viktor makes a face. 

“It's a good thing you have me,” he says, handing the phone back. “You won't make it very far with this.”

“ _ картофельное пюре _ ,” says Yuuri beatifically. 

That makes Viktor smile again. “So you have learned one important thing.”

“Very important,” Yuuri agrees. “Here, lie down.”

He scoots over, and Viktor wedges himself between Yuuri and the back of the couch. “How about I teach you a little?” says Viktor, and Yuuri wraps his earphones around his phone and slides both into the pocket of his sweats, nods.

“ _ Нос _ ,” says Viktor, kissing Yuuri’s nose. “ _ Bолосы _ ,” tousling his hair where it’s getting long. “ _ Подбородок _ ,” kissing at Yuuri’s chin. He mouths gently at the softness under his jaw. “ _ Двойной подбородок _ .” _   
_

“Wait,” says Yuuri. “Are there two words for chin? Chin and jaw or something? Are you even telling me body parts?”

Viktor laughs, nuzzling at Yuuri’s neck again. “Maybe I’m telling you unspeakable words.”

“It’ll serve you right when I don’t know the difference and start using them in public. ‘Who taught you that?’ people will say, scandalized. And I’ll just smile and point to you.”

Viktor pretends to look horrified. “I have a reputation, Yuuri.”

“Mmm, not for long.” He kisses at Viktor’s neck, and Viktor shudders against him. “So, what did you just say?”

Viktor slips one hand beneath Yuuri’s t-shirt, then, with his other hand, taps Yuuri’s nose. “ _ Нос _ , nose. “ _ Bолосы _ , hair.  _ Подбородок _ , chin.” He smiles, thumbs at Yuuri’s jaw. “ _ Двойной подбородок _ , double chin.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes at that, but the corners of his mouth poke up. “ _ That _ will be useful.”

“It’s very cute,” Viktor assures him, dipping down to kiss it again. “ _ Милый _ , that’s an important word. That is  _ cute _ ,  _ adorable _ ,  _ darling _ .” He kisses Yuuri full on the lips. “ _ My Yuuri _ , that is also a synonym.”

“Shut up,” says Yuuri, blushing. 

“ _ Мягкий _ ,” says Viktor, moving to Yuuri’s stomach. He repositions himself, maneuvering to lie between Yuuri’s legs. “ _ так бухать, так красиво. _ ”

“Should I ask?” Yuuri says, gazing at Viktor over the swell of his belly.

“I’m telling you how beautiful you are,” says Viktor, pressing a deep kiss below Yuuri’s navel. “I could tell you what everything means, but that would mean less time that I’m kissing you.”

“Mmm,” says Yuuri, rocking his hips a little. “Kiss me.”

And what choice does Viktor have then, really?

He noses at the smooth, pale skin of Yuuri’s belly, sinking long kisses into the soft flesh. He’s fascinated by the stretch marks that decorate Yuuri’s stomach - some are old and white, their texture just different enough that Viktor can find them without looking; some are new and pink, mapping out new  territory . Viktor is in love with the idea that there’s even more of Yuuri in the world now than there was when they met, and he treats each stretch mark like an invitation to celebrate that soft new skin and mark it as his own.

He’s never seen anyone gain weight up close, and it fascinates him. It’s a process with many more details than he’s ever imagined, from the first hints of roundness in Yuuri’s cheeks to the red indents his waistbands press into his flesh, from the whisper of cellulite on the backs of his thighs to the little roll of fat that gathers beneath his ribs now when he sits down, from his sweetly chubby knees to the two dimples that have appeared at the small of his back. Yuuri’s hips squish beneath Viktor’s hands now; his thighs touch, and when Viktor lies between them in bed he can see that they get pink on the insides where they rub together. He isn’t sure if those pink spots get sore or uncomfortable, but he always makes a point of kissing them anyway.

He finds Yuuri intensely attractive like this. He’s always attracted to Yuuri, but there’s something  - indulgent? domestic? simply just  _ soft _ ? - about how he looks now that wakes up something electric in Viktor’s bloodstream, adds a double-time to the signature of his heartbeat.

He pushes the hem of Yuuri’s shirt up over the mound of his belly and mouths at his skin, kissing and sucking at little pinches of chub. Yuuri moans softly, and Viktor uses his teeth, gently, glances up at Yuuri to see if he reacts.

Yuuri nods languidly, and Viktor speckles a handful of soft kisses along the underside of his belly, one of his hands drifting up to squeeze at Yuuri’s sides. He squishes his stomach between his hands, buries his face in the warm, doughy skin and keeps kissing it, feeling it wobble beneath his touch. 

“Talk to me?” says Yuuri after a few minutes, his hand landing in Viktor’s hair, and Viktor comes up for air. 

“Look at you,” he says, humming against the skin of Yuuri’s stomach. “You’re so beautiful, my Yuuri, so warm and strong.” He rubs the fabric of Yuuri’s t-shirt between his fingers. “Is this mine?”

Yuuri nods, flashing his little double chin again. “It looks a little small, doesn’t it?”

Viktor is a huge, unabashed sucker for Yuuri wearing his clothes, even more so now that they pull snug around Yuuri’s softness, display some extra skin. He presses closer to him, slips his hand under the t-shirt. “It looks  _ very  _ lovely on you.”

“Thanks,” says Yuuri, huffing out a little laugh. “Go on.”

“Mmmm,” says Viktor, laying his head on Yuuri’s stomach and hugging him as best he can while lying down. “So comfortable. I could sleep anywhere as long as I’m on top of you. Like the, what do you call them? The big pillows, you know, with the people -”

He feels Yuuri’s belly dip when he laughs. “ _ 抱き枕 _ .”

“ _ 抱き枕 _ ,” Viktor repeats, kissing the dip between Yuuri’s chest and stomach. “Yes, exactly. Just like that. Soft and warm and comfortable, likes to sleep underneath me …”

Yuuri rolls his hips again. “If I slept on top of you I’d squish you.”

His tone is playful, but sometimes Viktor has trouble sensing when he’s joking in earnest and when he’s joking to mask an insecurity. Viktor lifts his head and frowns. “Yuuri, despite how a great many magazines have described me, I am not some kind of delicate flower.” 

Yuuri smirks and makes an  _ ehhh, not sure _ kind of sound, and Viktor tickles the curve of his side in retaliation until he whines. “I’m sturdy enough, Yura,” he says, stroking his fingertips over the roundest part of Yuuri’s belly. “And you’re not heavy enough to do any damage.”

Yuuri makes another doubtful little sound, but this time his smirk is dangling by a thread. Viktor puts a finger to his lips, traces over their shape. “No - factually this is true. An extra twenty pounds on you isn’t going to kill me if you roll over on me.”

“It’s probably more than that,” says Yuuri, and this time Viktor can hear the insecurity, bubbling over like a pot left on a stove too long. He’s learning to parse the different ways Yuuri expresses worries about himself - the questions that he pretends not to need answers to, the statements he really means as questions. Sometimes, Viktor has learned, he’ll say things about himself that he doesn’t quite believe, or is trying hard not to, and he’ll tip up the ends of his inflections, like he’s doing now, trying to nudge an answer out of Viktor.

That’s the thing about having been so famous for so long - people are so busy watching him that they forget he’s watching them, too. Viktor has spent years learning to decipher the miniscule muscular shifts between pride and disappointment on Yakov’s face, the subtleties of Yuri Plisetsky’s eyebrows when staring down a rival or gazing at an idol, the delicate difference between Mila Babicheva’s  _ hi  _ to a friend and  _ hi  _ to a pretty girl, the quarter of a centimeter that Lilia Baranovskaya’s shoulders drop in repose.

But it frustrates him that there are still parts of Yuuri he can’t master like he could master his Russian family. For all the time he’s spent gazing at him, watching him, learning him - he should be better at this by now. He knows Yuuri’s tells, but he still falters in reassuring him sometimes, still falls short. He’s better than he  _ was,  _ certainly - he knows now, at least in theory, what to do during a panic attack. He knows that it’s better to listen than to try to reason Yuuri out of it - except when it’s not, when he keeps quiet and holds him until Yuuri scrapes out, “Can you tell me why it’ll be okay?”, and Viktor feels like his insides are being yanked out of him to hear him so raw, to realize he’s done it wrong  _ again _ . 

“No matter how much,” says Viktor firmly now, hoping this is the right route to take. He punctuates the words with a kiss. “You look perfect, you are perfect, да _? _ ”

“Да,” says Yuuri, soft but mollified, and Viktor exhales in relief, having stuck his landing. He finds Yuuri’s hand and squeezes it, and for a moment they’re quiet. He gives Yuuri’s belly a final kiss and shifts until he’s lying beside him again, rubbing soft circles over the exposed skin.

“I'm surprised you don't have a  _ 抱き枕  _ of me already, to be honest,” says Yuuri finally, and that makes Viktor laugh. 

“Who says I don't?” he teases, kissing at Yuuri’s neck. “Maybe I've just cast it off because I prefer the real thing.”

Yuuri's grin is smooth this time, and Viktor’s exhale is deep as he lays his head on Yuuri’s chest. 


	3. Chapter 3

Yuuri worries that he’s gotten more difficult to lift, but Viktor’s hands are sure as ever around his hips, although Yuuri can’t help but note that Viktor’s fingers sink further into him now.

He keeps his body as taut as he can while Viktor is holding him up, feeling the cool rink air tickle his stomach where his t-shirt falls open. They skate through the rest of their new pairs routine as though they’re still in competition mode, and Yuuri can’t help but smile when Viktor puts an arm around his shoulders as they catch their breath once they’ve finished, leans on him. He presses a kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head, and Yuuri leans against him in reply, brushing sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He feels pure, untouchable, the way he does when he’s so sure he’s done well that even his brain has trouble swaying him. He feels Viktor’s ribs move against his, slightly out of time, as they pant against each other, and Yuuri absorbs his heat like parched roots with water.

On the rinkside, someone claps, and Yuuri glances over, startled, to find Mila - he hadn’t heard anyone come in. They don’t coordinate practices most days in the off-season, but it’s not unusual for she or Yurio or Georgi to turn up while Yuuri and Viktor are practicing. More often than not they’ll find Georgi packing up if they come in the morning, whereas Mila is more likely to saunter in in the afternoons. Yuuri suspects that Yurio might live here a few days out of the week, for the number of unpredictable times and places they run into him here. Yuuri has found him lying on his back in the locker room slogging through textbooks and napping sprawled across several arena seats, and once Viktor caught him singing in the showers, an array of hair products lined up outside the shower curtain.

“Good morning!” Mila calls in Russian, and Yuuri is pleased to find that he recognizes the words before he parses what language they’re in. He learned this from Viktor and from the elderly couple who run the bakery down the street from Viktor’s apartment - his language-learning app seems determined to teach him phrases that he can’t imagine a use for outside one of the surrealist plays he read in college.

“Good morning!” Yuuri echoes, and Viktor makes a delighted little sound.

They skate back to her, and she drops her Russian to converse with them. Her accent is heavier than Viktor’s, and Yuuri has to pay more attention to understand her.

“Your lifts are looking good,” she says, tapping her nails against her phone case. “Like, what is it called? _Dirty Dancing._ No sloppy arms.” She turns to Yuuri, smiles conspiratorially. “He used to drop me very often. ‘What is it like to train with the great Viktor Nikiforov?’ the reporters ask me. ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘it is a great honor to be dropped by Viktor Nikiforov!’” She winks, and Yuuri laughs, pokes Viktor’s side when he protests.

“He dropped me a lot when we started,” he tells her. “I thought I’d have to get a divorce.”

She laughs, and Yuuri watches Viktor closely to make sure the expression he adopts is one of mock horror, rather than genuine, and lets out a little internal exhale when he’s right.

“Unbelievable!” says Viktor. “Maybe I only drop people I care about, hm?”

“You better shape up,” says Yuuri, bumping Viktor with his hip. “You need me for this routine.”

Viktor dips his head. “I do,” he says, sincerely, and it makes Yuuri glow inside to hear it, because after all - this routine started as a solo.

“You want to see?” says Mila, unlocking her phone. “It looked so good, I took some pictures.”

Yuuri’s stomach drops a little. He doesn’t like seeing himself in pictures - although he understands, logically, why he never looks quite right, he can’t stop it from nagging at him, wondering if other people see him as imperfectly as he sees himself.

He peers over Mila’s shoulder and squints at the screen of her phone, realizes he’s looking at her Instagram account. She’s right - their lift does look good, Viktor’s arms strong and straight, his back arched. And Yuuri thinks even he doesn’t look too bad, arms raised and legs perpendicular to each other, until he takes the phone from Mila and brings it up to his face, and realizes that she took at it just the right angle to capture his t-shirt where it fell open, his stomach spilling out in a soft curve, pale but for where it’s striped with red.

He swallows hard, lowers the phone, and Mila takes it back from him, talking animatedly to Viktor. Yuuri crosses his arms over his stomach, squishes it down. He hasn’t posted a photo of himself that shows anything below his chest to any of his social media accounts since the season ended. He hasn’t made any posts that might show the rest of the world the weight he’s gained, the shape he’s in - even if he grows to be okay with it again, even if Viktor is okay with it, he’s almost certain the rest of the world won’t be as forgiving, and that frightens him. He’s always been unable to keep himself from reading critiques of his performances, puff pieces about how he’s perceived by skating fans - it isn’t enough to suspect that he’s done badly or that fans find him standoffish, he has to _know_ , has to understand the depth of exactly how bad it is. He pictures a ribbon of comments unfurling below Mila’s post, criticizing his body, his talent, his dedication to the sport, telling him that he’s lost his edge, that he isn’t worth anything like this.

Mood soured, he moves to lean against Viktor again, fitting himself under Viktor’s arm and slugging from his water bottle in an attempt to keep himself centered. Viktor would tell him his stretch marks are nice, he thinks. Viktor would tell him that his belly is perfect and sweet, that his form is better than most skaters’ even while he's carrying those extra pounds. Viktor would tell him it's okay, maybe that no one would even notice.

If he could tell Viktor that he's upset, which he can't.

He tucks his head into the crook between Viktor’s neck and shoulder on the subway home, sits as close to him as he can. “Tired?” Viktor asks, and Yuuri nods against him.

“Lovely day for a nap, I think,” says Viktor, giving Yuuri’s thigh a squeeze where it spreads over the subway seat. “I'm going to take Makkachin for his walk when we get back, and then I'll join you.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri softly. He fights the urge to take out his phone and check Mila’s picture for comments. Instead, he squeezes a handful of his stomach through the inside of his coat pocket, and then digs his fingernails into his palm until he has to bite his lip from the sting.

He waits until Viktor and Makkachin are gone, and then puts a pot of rice on the stove to cook and takes out his phone, puts it away, takes it out again. He stares at his home screen - apps layered over a picture of Viktor, Mari, and Yuuri’s parents, taken before they'd left for St. Petersburg. They're all squished together, smiling widely, and it even makes Yuuri smile a little now, although it hurts at the edges.

Quickly and deliberately, he takes the short staircase up to their bedroom and tucks his phone under his pillow, then returns to the kitchen, anxiety bubbling green in his stomach. If he doesn't look, he can still imagine that no one has said anything.

This method has never worked in his favor, but he stays rooted in the kitchen, stirring the rice urgently and pacing tight, fretful circles between the counter and the stove. Last season, he’d started gaining weight even before the Grand Prix Final, a few extra pounds pushing at the stretchy material of his costume. He hadn’t noticed, really, until he’d heard the whispers among other skaters, among the press milling around the arena - _no wonder he did so poorly, look at him_ \- and felt their eyes dragging on him as he tried his best to suck in. He kept a coat on over his costume if he wasn’t on the ice, trying to camouflage the bulges beneath the fabric around his hips. That extra swathe of self-loathing, heavy and new, had sat in the pit of his stomach like the expensive Russian McDonald’s that he’d binged on the night before, because it felt more familiar than any of the other options available to him in Sochi.

By the time the rice is done, his shoulders and chest are tight. Although he put the rice on with the intention of giving half to Viktor, he tips it into one bowl almost without thinking and drizzles some soy sauce over it - it doesn’t taste anything like it does at home, but he’s getting used to that, slowly. He sticks two of the many wooden chopsticks Viktor has stocked their kitchen with into the mound of rice and takes it to the couch, curling up amongst the throw pillows.

He eats mechanically, staring off at the tips of the city that reach to the sky like fingertips in urdhva hastasana. The food doesn’t quite quell the anxiety, but it pushes it to the edges of his brain, puts it on mute for a while. He cleans the bowl grain by grain, a dull heat radiating from his full stomach and spreading through him. He glances down at himself, at how his belly rounds out over his lap, the space his chunky hips span on the couch, and it doesn’t make him wince until he thinks of seeing it through someone else’s eyes - the decline of his figure, his career, instead of the body of someone who’s getting comfortable.

He’s still on the couch, still cradling his empty bowl, when Viktor and Makkachin return about twenty minutes later, cold and cheerful. Makkachin hops onto the couch beside Yuuri as Viktor hangs up his coat and scarf, and Yuuri sets his bowl aside and absorbs himself in petting the poodle’s ears until Viktor comes to sit on his other side.

“I thought you'd be sleeping,” Viktor says, kissing his cheek hello and slipping his fingers into the curls of hair at the nape of Yuuri’s neck. “What did you cook?”

“Rice,” says Yuuri, directing the word into Makkachin’s fur. “I made some for you too, but I - I ate it. I'm sorry.”

Viktor makes a fond little sound. “That's all right. Is everything okay?”

Yuuri pauses in petting Makkachin. “I'm fine.”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” says Viktor, leaning on the first syllable. He rests his chin on top of Yuuri’s head, wraps an arm around him. His fingertips tease at the curve of Yuuri's side where it spills over his waistband, then move to prod at his stomach gently. “That looks like it was a large bowl of rice. Are you sure everything is all right?”

Yuuri makes a little noise halfway to a groan, lets Viktor take him in both arms and position him horizontal on the couch, his back to Viktor’s chest. Viktor tucks his chin over Yuuri’s shoulder, kisses softly just below his ear. Instead of squeezing, one of his hands slips beneath Yuuri’s shirt and rubs gentle circles into his skin.

“Talk to me, Yuuri,” he says, as Makkachin settles behind the parentheses of their legs. “Something is bothering you, you’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

Yuuri squirms, thinks of his phone lying abandoned beneath his pillow, the comments that are surely piling up on that post. He thinks of Viktor’s whispered endearments and joyful declarations, genuine in his adoration of Yuuri’s body and self. He wishes so hard he can feel it pressing against his ribs that he could keep himself from giving them the same weight in his consideration of his self-image.

Viktor waits, keeps rubbing his belly.

“The picture,” says Yuuri finally. “That Mila posted.”

He feels Viktor cock his head. “Of the two of us?”

Yuuri nods. “Did you look at it?”

“Sure.”

“Did you _really_ look at it?” says Yuuri, and he knows the answer is no. When has Viktor ever had to examine himself for extra bulges or rolls, for any kind of physical imperfection?

He feels Viktor twist to take out his phone with the hand that isn’t draped over Yuuri. “What am I looking for?” he says carefully, after a moment, and that makes Yuuri feel even worse, because now that means he’s overreacting.

He pinches his eyes shut. “You can see my - my stomach. My stretch marks.” His hand goes instinctively to his belly, and lands on Viktor’s hand instead. “It’s stupid. It’s stupid to care about what strangers on the internet think about my body because - you like it, and I don’t mind it, and that should be enough.”

He presses himself closer to Viktor, takes a deep breath and feels it catch in his lungs. He can feel his heartbeat in his stomach. “But I keep thinking about all those people seeing that picture and thinking that I’m lazy or worthless or a disgrace to skating and saying awful things about it like it’s _bad_ that I got chubby again.” He takes another long, jagged breath. “And I don’t want to believe that. I don’t want to feel bad about it. And usually when it’s just you and me, I don’t. I like it, even. Or at least I get close. But sometimes I think about how terrible the media and everyone else wants me to feel about it, and … I’m afraid of ending up like that. I don’t want to hate it. I struggle with that enough with everything else.”

He says all of this without looking at Viktor, and huffs out a hard exhale, listening with his body for Viktor’s answering heartbeat.

“Hey,” says Viktor softly, brushing his fingers against the side of Yuuri’s face. “Look at me, Yura.”

Yuuri turns onto his back, his stomach protesting only a little. He looks up at Viktor, who kisses his forehead before continuing, “They don’t know you. They don’t know how determined you are, or how hard you work, or how much it means to you when you succeed. So they don’t get a say in how you feel about yourself. If you like your body, you say fuck the rest of them. And I know that’s hard,” he says, his voice dropping a little. “I know it’s not so easy to decide you don’t care. But please don’t hate yourself because of puff headlines or Instagram comments, _солнышко_. Their opinions don't change your ability or your worth. If they don’t respect your body, they don’t respect you, and they certainly don’t deserve your respect or even a single thought from you in return.”

Yuuri is silent for a moment, tightening his grasp around Viktor’s hand. Viktor takes the opportunity to smooth Yuuri’s hair from his forehead, scoop him closer. “You are incredible,” he says softly, the tips of his hair grazing Yuuri’s cheek. “You have done things that no other person in the world has managed to do, remember that. You have broken records, Yuuri. You’re the only person in the world who makes me feel completely whole and human. These are not small things.”

His voice is steady, but Yuuri’s heart still cracks a little, and he maneuvers an arm around Viktor to bring him down, pull him to his chest. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and Viktor nods against him.

“Of course,” he says. “I am always here when you need a boast.”

Yuuri smiles despite himself. “A boost,” he says, and he feels Viktor shrug.

“Boast is brag?”

“Yes.”

“I’m here for that too,” says Viktor. “When I retire I’ll begin a new career that is purely to boast about you.”

Yuuri covers Viktor’s face with his hand. “The worst part is that you’re famous enough that someone would give you a talk show about it.”

“Exactly,” Viktor purrs, and Yuuri laughs, teasing his fingers through Viktor’s hair.

They’re both quiet for a few minutes, the silence tempered by Makkachin’s sleepy breaths, and then Yuuri, unable to help himself, says, “Did you … did you read any of the comments?”

“Hm?” says Viktor, raising his head.

“The comments,” says Yuuri, the words thick on his tongue. “On Mila’s photo.”

“Ah,” says Viktor. “No, but I will, if you want me to.”

A crush of anxiety pushes through Yuuri, and he tightens his fingers in Viktor’s hair by accident. “Sorry, sorry,” he says when Viktor winces. “I - do you mind?”

“Not at all,” says Viktor lightly, and he props his phone on Yuuri’s belly to scroll through Instagram.

Yuuri holds his breath. Maybe whatever it is the public has to say about him will sound kinder in Viktor’s voice.

A second thought chases it, wild: if he hears these words in Viktor’s voice, he’ll recall them in Viktor’s voice, and he absolutely does not want that.

“I changed my mind,” he says. “I’d rather - I’ll read them myself.”

Viktor just nods, passes him the phone, and Yuuri takes another deep breath to hold, closes his eyes for a long moment.

 _View all 298 comments_ , Instagram prompts him, and he thumbs at it with dread curdling in his throat.

 

 **thisisnot_negotiable** i lOve tHEM **@mcfinnigan** DID YOU SEE THIS

 **yakety_snax** omg yuuri’s stretch marks!! he’s so cute i can’t

 **man_men_mants** this image cleared my skin, watered my crops, and cured my anxiety

 **anders_ragu** aww look at his chub!!! what a sweetheart i wanna smooch it

 **bonerhell666** AARGH THIS IS TOO MUCH AND TOO GOOD

 **doyoulikeorangejuice** his stretch marks look just like mine ahhh!!!!

 **emy_emu** this is the sweetest thing i have ever seen holy shit

 **snegarctica** fuck i’m crying i’ve never seen stretch marks on a celebrity before this is so important

 

Yuuri lowers the phone, his hands trembling a little. Viktor’s eyebrows pinch together.

“Is everything all right, _моя любовь_?” he asks, and Yuuri nods, hands him the phone, swallows hard.

He watches Viktor’s face soften as he reads, his mouth getting looser, his blinks getting faster, until he lays the phone down on Yuuri’s chest and takes a long breath that only shudders a little.

“Oh, Yuuri,” he says, kissing the top of his head. “Oh, my Yuuri.”

As Yuuri lies against him, letting his own breathing catch and stumble as he runs those comments through his head over and over again, it occurs to him that he made the right decision, choosing to read them himself. He’s heard his body praised with Viktor’s voice so often that it’s almost routine, but these new voices - these are the ones that will dig their claws into him when he starts feeling bad about himself. These are the ones that will push him through his bad days until he can start finding his own words for it instead.

He tucks his head against Viktor’s chest, breathes him in. “I think I need that nap now,” he says, his voice still soft, a little shaky, and Viktor pulls down the blanket they keep folded at the top of the couch, tucks it around them. Behind their knees, Makkachin snuffles, repositions, and Yuuri falls asleep with Makka’s head on his calf and Viktor’s hand clutched in his own.


	4. Chapter 4

_ Ten Reasons Katsuki Yuuri is the Most Relatable (And Precious!) Athlete We Know _

_ #9. He has stretch marks, just like the rest of us! It’s easy to feel like celebrities and athletes are immune to everyday things like stretch marks, and that makes it easy to feel bad about your own. Representation matters! But ever since Russian skater Ludmila Babicheva posted  _ _ this picture _ _ of Yuuri with his fiancé and skating partner, Russian skating legend Viktor Nikiforov, two weeks ago, the internet has showered him in appreciation and thanks for letting his stretch marks show like it’s #nbd.  _

The door between the doctor’s office and waiting room creaks, and Viktor looks up from his phone, but it’s not Yuuri, not yet. He sighs, blows a piece of hair out of his eyes, returns his fond gaze to the  _ Teen Vogue  _ article. He's a slow reader, especially in English, and he's just finishing the last item on the list when a text from Yuuri slides in. 

_ Sorry _ , he says.  _ Your doctor is taking forever to come back for me. I think everything is ok but I might need you to help me understand her. _

Yuuri fell on his last rotation of a quad flip yesterday and landed hard on his hip. He'd begged off going to a doctor right away, insisted he was fine, but when he was still limping and wincing this morning, Viktor dragged him in to make sure nothing was wrong. 

_ Okay good luck!!!  _ he writes back.  _ I can translate, no problem.  _

As he waits, he thinks back to the article, its specific mention of Yuuri's stretch marks. He'd like to show it to Yuuri, so he can see the positive representation he's giving with that picture he's so worried about, but - maybe now isn't the time. Yuuri's been less disparaging toward his body over the past few weeks, but after he fell yesterday, he folded into himself. His smiles were weak and tight, and he'd eaten the feel-better pint of salted caramel ice cream Viktor had picked up for him with the look of flat determination Viktor has come to associate with his anxiety attacks. 

He’d relaxed a bit by this morning, but sitting in the waiting room with Viktor, waiting for his name to be called, he’d tensed up again, staring at his knees, hands curled into fists in his lap. Viktor had fretted beside him, silent in trying to decide whether he should say anything or whether he’d make it worse, or if he’d already made it worse by insisting on coming to the doctor’s.

He’d reached for him, tried to drape his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, but Yuuri had shied away, his shoulders pulling in even further. Viktor had shrunk back into his own seat, defeated. Usually, touching Yuuri helped to ground him, bring him out of his head and back into the world. Viktor has managed to resolve, at least for the moment, most of Yuuri’s body anxieties by showering him in physical affection and compliments, and he’s pretty good at pep-talking him out of snits, but concrete ways to help him when he’s well and truly anxious - those still elude him.

In the end, Viktor had put his hand on the arm of his chair where it butted up against the arm of Yuuri’s, and waited the few excruciating minutes until Yuuri reached over and squeezed his hand, hard.

The door creaks again, and this time when Viktor looks up, Yuuri is looking back at him. Viktor recognizes the little sag of relief between Yuuri’s eyebrows when he’s back in Viktor’s company - he doesn’t feel confident enough in his Russian yet to be alone with predominantly Russian speakers, Viktor knows. 

Behind Yuuri is Viktor’s doctor, a short, heavyset woman who reminds him of Yuuri’s mother in the way her mouth curves when she smiles. Viktor stands, shoving his phone in his coat pocket, and watches Yuuri’s face for any signs of upset.

“Is he all right?” he asks the doctor in Russian, and she smiles, and something loosens in his chest. 

“He’s fine,” she replies in kind. “He’ll be sore for a few days, but the bruise looks much worse than it is.” She pats her own hip. “It’s a good thing he has that padding or that injury could have been much worse.”

Viktor glances at Yuuri automatically, forgetting that he won’t understand. Yuuri’s eyebrows are pinched again, his arms folded over his stomach. The dark green sweater he’s wearing is one Viktor particularly likes - it brings out the pink in Yuuri’s cheeks, the depth of his brown eyes. It’s getting snug - the curve of his belly peeks out from beneath the hem if he raises his arms above his shoulders. Viktor thinks it’s very sweet, spent the morning asking him to reach things for him to catch that little glimpse of pale skin and pink striae.

“Yes, well,” says Viktor, spinning his wheels for a second as he tries to read Yuuri for  _ anxious  _ or  _ confused _ . “He’ll be glad to hear that. He’s sensitive sometimes, about being chubby.”

She shrugs, waves her hand. “His weight is healthy. It’ll keep him warm.” She winks at Viktor. “Tell him a doctor said so if he doesn’t believe it.”

Viktor smiles. “Thank you,” he says, and once they've settled up, Yuuri allows Viktor to put an arm around him as they make their way outside. 

“What did she say?” Yuuri asks once they’re on the street, like the doctor might still hear him if he’s in the building, and Viktor pulls him in closer. Although it’s warm, the sky is thick with grey clouds, and Viktor feels a raindrop slither down the back of his neck as he steers Yuuri in the direction of the nearest subway station. 

“You're fine, _солнышко_. She said it looks much worse than it is, you’ll just be sore for a few days.” 

Viktor feels some of the tension drain from Yuuri’s shoulders. “Okay, that’s good. It was bad enough falling that hard in front of everyone on a jump I’ve done perfectly in competition.” 

He takes a deep breath, and Viktor feels the rise of his shoulders. “What else did she say?”

His tone is wrong - guarded again, his walls creeping back up like Viktor might be sugarcoating the doctor’s verdict for him. “About your hip?” Viktor asks, and Yuuri shakes his head.

“I heard - she said  _ жир _ and you said  _ полнощекий _ , so - did she say something about my weight? I mean, she must have, right?”

“She said it’s good that you have some padding here,” says Viktor, reaching down to touch Yuuri’s injured hip gently. “That you could have been really hurt if you hadn’t.”

Yuuri turns to him, makes a strange face, his eyebrows coming together, eyes narrowing. “That’s funny,” he says. “That was my first thought when I fell. Even before I started to be embarrassed about it - I was thinking, ‘Whoa, that would have been worse if I were thin.’” He clears his throat. “I was grateful for it, I guess.”

Viktor’s heart lightens a little. This is a far cry from Yuuri’s self-deprecation - his voice is steady; there are none of his doubtful, anxious inflections.

“She said your weight is healthy,” he says, moving his hand from Yuuri’s hip to tease at the bulge of his side. “She said it’ll keep you warm.”

He checks Yuuri’s face for a reaction, and it looks like Yuuri might be fighting a smile, the dimple in his cheek just starting to appear. “But what did  _ you  _ say?” Yuuri asks, angling his face toward Viktor. “You said  _ полнощекий _ .”

Viktor takes a moment to decide how to best word this. He knows Yuuri is sensitive about being sensitive, has cultivated his standoffish celebrity persona as a hard shell to protect himself from being called soft or fragile. He doesn’t know how Yuuri will feel about Viktor’s telling their doctor about his weight sensitivities, or how far those sensitivities extend - how Yuuri will feel about Viktor’s using the word  _ chubby  _ to describe him to someone else. 

“I said you’d be glad to hear that,” Viktor says carefully as they descend into the subway station. “That sometimes you’re concerned about being chubby, and it might help to hear that she thinks your weight is healthy.”

Because, Viktor figures, if Yuuri is trying to stay comfortable with his body, Viktor isn’t doing him any favors by pretending he  _ isn’t  _ chubby. It’s not like Viktor is shy about professing his love for Yuuri’s body in any condition, but most of all this one - he’s spent more time showering Yuuri’s plump parts with affection than almost any other part of his body. Viktor thinks it’s incredible, how soft and wonderful and lovely he is like this, and he yearns for Yuuri to believe that too, to understand how breathtaking he is.

Yuuri is silent as they move through the turnstiles of the station, and only once they arrive on the platform does he say, “That is good to hear.”

Viktor returns his arm to Yuuri’s shoulders. “Yes?”

“ _ Да _ ,” replies Yuuri, and Viktor smiles. 

“I get nervous with doctors,” says Yuuri, leaning into him. “Usually if they have something to say about my weight, it’s … negative. But your doctor didn’t make me feel like that, so - it’s good.” He swallows, gives Viktor a little half-smile. “It’s good to hear that from her.”

Viktor tucks Yuuri’s head under his chin, lowers his arm to circle his waist. “Yuuri,” he murmurs, drawing it out in the way he knows Yuuri finds comforting. “She’s a good doctor. I went to her once, when I was younger - eighteen, maybe, nineteen. I was feeling very defiant then. I felt like I needed to be all of myself all of the time. The RSF was bothering me about being a man, when was I going to start acting like a man. I said, this is how I act. I went to my appointment wearing a dress beneath my coat, my fingernails painted under my gloves. I was prepared to fight with her. She said nothing but that she liked the color of my nails. At the time I was angry that she did not want to fight” - Yuuri makes a soft sound against Viktor’s coat - “but I was grateful, later. She is very comfortable. She won’t make you feel bad for anything.”

“Good,” says Yuuri. “It does keep me warm, the  _ жир _ .”

Viktor laughs. “Where did you learn that? And  _ полнощекий _ ? Your app?”

Yuuri snorts affectionately. “From you, of course. You use them more often than Phichit updates his Snapchat story.”

Viktor feels himself go pink. “I’m very - appreciative, I can’t help it.”

“I know. I don’t mind,” says Yuuri as the train keens into the station. “It’s nice hearing it from you. You make it very easy to believe that it’s good.”

“It’s true,” says Viktor, keeping a hand on Yuuri as they board. They take two seats toward the end of the car, and when Viktor puts an arm around him, he doesn’t shy away like he did this morning.

“It’s a process,” Yuuri says, shrugging. “I’m not always good at it, but I’m getting better.” 

He takes his phone out of his pocket, a signal Viktor now recognizes as an amicable but firm end to a conversation when Yuuri doesn’t have the words or will to end it aloud. The first few times Yuuri did this, back in Hasetsu, Viktor thought it rude, or maybe a sign that Yuuri wasn’t interested in him. But he’s since noticed that Yuuri does it to everyone, and he does it more often when he’s talking about himself. When he’s anxious, or embarrassed, he takes his phone out, checks it, puts it back, checks it again - but this is more fluid, more casual:  _ This conversation is over, I have moved on and I am going to check Instagram now. _

Viktor watches him systematically check his social media: Instagram first, then Snapchat - smiling and reacting to pictures from Phichit, Yurio, Minami, and the seemingly inseparable duo of Leo and Guang Hong - and finally Twitter. Yuuri hasn’t mentioned the Instagram/stretch mark incident since their conversation two weeks ago, and it makes Viktor’s chest go warm to know that he’s made at least a little progress with himself since then.

He marvels at the difference between Yuuri now and Yuuri two hours ago, tense through the first subway ride and half hour of waiting and now so much looser, brighter. Viktor can’t take responsibility for the improvement, not really, but he thinks he’s done all right today, even with his shaky start earlier. Maybe Yuuri’s words apply to him too - learning to handle Yuuri’s anxiety is a process, one that not even Yuuri is fluent in sometimes, still. But Viktor is pushing forward, even, like this morning, when Yuuri pushes back and walls him out. Maybe he’ll find that universal way to comfort him, that master key into his whirling mind, Vikor thinks, turning to press an absent kiss into Yuuri’s hair. If he keeps pushing forward, he has to get there someday.


	5. Chapter 5

Yuuri wakes up before Viktor, which is rare. Viktor sleeps so lightly and restlessly that Yuuri sometimes wonders if he even experiences REM cycles, or if, as with so many things with Viktor, he’s evolved past the point of needing them to operate. 

Yuuri rolls over to face him, smiling at the way his hair flops down over his eyes, the way his mouth hangs a little open. Yuuri shifts, propping himself up on his elbow, but Viktor doesn't stir. His breathing is deep and even, and Yuuri remembers in a flash, before he can worry, that Viktor took one of his oft-neglected melatonin pills last night. He's supposed to take a low dose every night to help manage his sleep schedule, and Yuuri’s sure he sounds like a nag for all he reminds him, but he can't deny how satisfying it is to see Viktor actually sleeping _well_. 

Yuuri tucks the duvet up over Viktor’s shoulders - bare but for the thin, satiny purple straps of his nightie - and although Viktor makes a little noise that’s almost Makkachin-esque, he doesn’t wake up. Yuuri settles next to him, shifting onto his back, and folds his arms over the swell of his belly under the blankets. He squeezes a handful of his stomach absently, just because it’s soft and there, and it makes him smile a little. Viktor has been spoiling him since he fell last week, and Yuuri would bristle, call it coddling, if it extended further than propping him up on pillows at the end of the day with an ice pack or heat pack on his hip and feeding him treats while they work their way through their Netflix queue. Yuuri’s put on another couple pounds since then, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. It’s getting easier to welcome the number on the scale. 

He’s been keeping those comments from Instagram in the back of his mind, although it’s been weeks. His fans keep tagging him in tweets, asking him how he feels about the photo, his weight, his stretch marks. Does he like it? How does he stay so comfortable with his body? Is it hard being a skater and having a good relationship with his body?

He hasn’t replied to any of the tweets - he doesn’t know how he could answer those questions in 140 characters or less. He’s sure his silence isn’t making him look any less standoffish, and he does want to respond somehow, but he hasn’t found a good way to tell them how much those reactions meant to him, how the echoes of those comments have pushed him through the past few weeks, steadied him when his self-confidence faltered. 

He doesn’t always like that he’s so reliant on other people’s opinions to prop him up, but it helps to have something to brace himself on when his own brain lies to him, kicks the legs out from underneath his precariously constructed self-esteem. He would love for his own opinions of his body to be enough to convince him entirely, but until he can find an anxiety medication or exercise that can make that possible, he settles for listening in the back of his mind for Viktor’s compliments or his fans’ adoring appreciations until he can find his way back to his own self-confidence.

“I don’t exactly look like a gold-medal figure skater anymore, do I?” he’d said to Viktor weeks ago, offhandedly. He’d been trying to figure out which pairs of jeans still fit him like this - Yuuri keeps three sizes in his closet to accommodate his in-season, off-season, and in-between figures. 

Viktor had made a soft sound of disagreement. “You  _ are  _ a gold-medal figure skater,” he’d said, coming up behind Yuuri to slip his arms around his waist and tease at his underbelly. “You’re  _ exactly _ what one looks like.”

Yuuri has hung onto that too, that reminder that even if his body looks a little different now, it’s still the same body, with the same abilities. This body belongs to one of the top figure skaters in the world, and no Instagram comment or magazine headline can take that from him.

He tries to fall back to sleep, but his mind is going now, trying to spin together a possible response he could post. He needs to give back somehow - most of his fans have stuck with him through the stages of his career Yuuri can only look at through his fingers; he owes it to them. 

Viktor is still in a deep sleep, and it's Yuuri’s turn to make breakfast, so as gently as he can, he slips on his glasses, rolls out of bed, and grabs a pair of sweats from the basket of clean laundry he hasn't put away yet. His thighs jiggle a little as he bounces from one leg to the other to put them on, and he reminds himself that under the extra chub he's strong, that these thighs carried him to a gold medal at Worlds a few months ago. 

He considers changing into one of Viktor’s shirts to surprise him when he finally wakes up, but the one he’s wearing now is large and cozy and his own, so he keeps it. The bottom of his belly falls out of most of Viktor’s shirts now anyway, and that little strip of exposed skin gets chilly. 

He pads downstairs, and Makkachin follows a few moments later, when Yuuri pours some dry food into his dish. 

Yuuri measures coffee into Viktor’s fancy French press -  _ much  _ fancier than the one Phichit kept in college, and unnecessarily so, Yuuri thinks - and while water is heating in the kettle, he takes out everything he'll need for pancakes. Viktor doesn't like making them, is too easily distracted, but he likes eating them, and Yuuri checks the fridge to make sure they have jam first - Viktor prefers it to maple syrup. 

He adds the water to the coffee, and misjudges the distance between the edge of the counter and his bruised hip as he reaches for the press’s plunger across the countertop. He hisses as a sharp blue pain sparks down his hipbone, and as the coffee steeps, he heads to the bathroom down the hall, cursing himself, to see if he's given himself another bruise. 

But when he rolls down the waistband of his sweatpants, there's just the shadow of the old bruise, almost all the way healed. He thumbs at it, wincing against his own touch, and then hikes his sweats back up. 

He pauses for a moment, fixes his hair where it’s sleep-flat, and gives himself a bleary, owlish look. He wrinkles his nose at himself, and it’s just goofy enough to make him smile a little. 

He drifts a hand down to his belly, then to the hem of his shirt. Slowly, he lifts his shirt until the whole of his belly is exposed: the wide dip of his navel, the soft bulges of his love handles, the zigzagging red stretch marks, the sag of tummy above the drawstrings of his sweats. 

His smile widens, soft and fond, and it surprises him a little when he looks up to see it. He looks comfortable - he looks content. He looks the way Viktor has described him, warm and sweet and beautiful, but when the words come into his head, they’re spoken in his own voice, not Viktor’s.

He looks back into the mirror, squeezes a handful of chub, and slips a hand into the pocket of his sweats to grab his phone.

It takes him a while to find a good angle where his phone doesn’t get in the way of showing off his body, but when he finally snaps the photo, he’s pleased with it. He’s not looking at the camera, giving his body a shy little smile instead.

_ Thank you for your kind words and your comments!  _ he types into the caption field. _ I really appreciate them and I have thought about them a lot over the past few weeks. It’s hard to find things that I like about myself sometimes. Viktor helps with that, but your support does too, it means even more knowing that you support me even when I don’t look like I do during the season. I like my body, and I like the way I look like this, and it’s taken a lot of work to get here, to say that. Thank you again for being here for me and for always cheering me on. Yuuri xx _

He still turns circles around the kitchen as he waits for the inevitable flood of comments, but he doesn’t feel nearly as anxious as he did three weeks ago, putting himself through the same paces. Even if someone out on the internet doesn’t like the way he looks,  _ he  _ does, and that settles something in the pit of his stomach.

He makes coffee, and he makes pancakes. By the time Viktor wanders into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and still shrugging into his teal silk bathrobe, there are 304 comments on Yuuri’s post, and not a single one of them has failed to make him smile.

**Author's Note:**

> all russian/japanese was done through google translate so pls let me know if something is Wrong  
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> \--  
> i promise y'all i'll write a for real chub fic for this like ... soon


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